


The Way Glass Warps

by triedunture



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Comeplay, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Mind Meld, Mirror Universe, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Humiliation, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's be super clear about the Rape/Non-Con tag. Please note it. </p><p>Kirk lands in the alternate timeline's version of the Mirrorverse, where he finds himself in the middle of what Mirror!Spock thinks is a prearranged and consensual BDSM scene. Jim can't blow his cover so he endures it,  finding himself further humiliated by enjoying parts of it. But everything falls apart when Mirror!Spock realizes something's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way Glass Warps

The thunder rolls through the valleys and gorges of the uninhabited planet. McCoy jumps a little while Jim suppresses his laugh but not his grin. "Status of the storm, Mister Spock?" Jim says into his communicator. 

"Standard ion type and very—" A pause where Jim can _feel_ the shift of his ship under the feet of his First Officer, hundreds of miles above. "Violent," Spock finishes. 

Now Jim doesn't bother to smother the laugh. He can just picture what Spock's face is doing, that annoyed not-frown at circumstances beyond even his control. "Rough ride?"

"If we stay."

"We won't. We're all done here. Away party to beam up." He closes his communicator and offers Bones a reassuring glance. Scotty and Uhura fall into place close behind him, and then the familiar sensation of the transporter lock takes hold. 

For a moment, through the haze of the beam-up, Jim thinks he sees Spock's face in the transporter room. Just for a moment. Then it's gone. A jolt of panic rockets through Jim's body, but he knows it's all in his head. His nervous system is actually broken up into a billion particles, and it's not until they begin to coalesce that the adrenaline kicks in. 

"Spock was right," Jim says over his shoulder as he steps from the transporter pad. "That was—" He looks up. Stops. Looks harder. 

Spock has a beard. A goatee? Some kind of facial hair. Jim squints at it, thinking for an instant that this is some kind of weird Vulcan humor. Your beam-up took so long, I had time to grow this thing, etc. Except Spock doesn't have a sense of humor. At least not that kind. 

"What—?" Scotty is saying before Jim's brain can even catch up with the not-joke and the not-Spock and—yep, now that he looks around and sees the uniforms and the emblems—the not-Enterprise. 

Jim makes a small gesture behind his back, something for Scotty and the rest. A little flick of Jim's fingers that he hopes translates to Keep Quiet, Can't You See Spock Has a Beard? 

The not-Spock steps forward and offers a weird sort of chest-pounding salute. "Captain. Status of the planet?"

Well, at least Jim's still a captain in...wherever they are. He salutes back, slowly and carefully, just in case he's not supposed to, because then he'll have to play it off as a muscle spasm. But this new Spock doesn't seem bothered by the returned gesture. 

"No change," he says, because it's his best guess. The planet he just beamed up from was lifeless a minute ago, and he prays that's still the case now. It must be because Spock just nods like he expected this.

Spock and the rest of the crew are all wearing some kind of skintight flightsuits, as if they need to be ready to evac at a moment's notice. There are slashes of red and yellow and blue around their throats and wrists to denote their stations and strange little medals on their chests to—Jim is just guessing here—signify their rank. Spock has two big silver ones right over where his heart would be if he were human. Jim glances down at his own chest. He has two silvers and a gold. And, okay, for whatever reason, he's eschewed sleeves on his uniform. Perfect. 

The crewman by the transporter controls—Kyle, it's still Kyle; Jim recognizes his face—stammers out something about ion storms and molecular disruptions. Spock walks over to him, hands folded behind his back. And then Spock kills him. 

Jim doesn't even have time to move. Spock just _kills_ him. Lopes over like the upright feline he is, produces a needle-like blade from his sleeve, and draws a line across the man's throat as easy as you might draw a felt tip pen across the surface of old-fashioned paper. The crewman falls, flopping on the floor as great gouts of blood spurt from his throat. 

Uhura gasps audibly. Bones starts forward and Jim grabs him by the wrist. "No use now, Doctor," Jim says, because it's true.

"Captain Kirk is correct," Spock says. He wipes his blade clean on the dead man's uniform and steps over him without blinking an eye. "It would be foolish to waste resources, especially when the patient in question has clearly committed an offense punishable by death."

At least my name is still Kirk, Jim thinks. His brain is just shy of hysterical. He keeps thinking maybe if he blinks hard enough, this will all go away. It doesn't.

"And just what offense was that?" Bones snaps. 

Spock eyes him coolly. "Failing to perform his duty to the Empire to the satisfaction of his superiors, of course." None of the other crew in the transporter room seem disturbed by this turn of events, and Jim realizes there are a _lot_ of people hanging around, all wearing phasers, all stationed in tactical positions. As if battle stations are manned around the clock.

He looks again at the new emblem on the transporter room door: a planet with continents arranged much like Earth's with a sword plunged through its center. What the hell kind of world has he dropped into? 

First things first, he thinks. Protect his crew. Keep them alive. Get them home. Jim clears his throat and tries to affect the unworried stance of a violent, bloodthirsty captain who's just watched his equally bloodthirsty first officer carry out his expected duty. He gives McCoy's wrist one last squeeze, then drops it. 

"We'll need to check out that transporter. I don't want any more mistakes," he says. 

"Of course," Spock says. "Mr. Scott, if you would—"

"No," Jim interrupts. "I want the away team checked out first. To make sure the transporter didn't leave any permanent damage. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?" Kirk turns to Bones with a leading glance. 

Bones' jaw is ticking. His eyes are still straying to the body on the ground. "Yes," he manages. "I agree."

"I'll be in sickbay," Jim tells Spock as he hustles his real crew toward the door. "Keep me informed of your progress." 

"Yes sir. And the planet? The usual procedure?" Spock asks.

After what he's just seen Spock do, Jim's not sure he wants to know what the usual procedure is, but he doesn't have much choice in the matter. It's either pretend like everything's normal or end up on the floor like Kyle. 

He nods. "Yes, Mr. Spock. As usual." He's almost out the door. 

Spock steps in front of him, cutting him off from the rest of the away team. Uhura looks back over her shoulder, but Kirk gives her a look that means Go Ahead and Don't Worry. The door slides shut on her frown.

"And this evening's debriefing?" Spock asks him. His voice is slightly lower, darker, or maybe it's just his eyes.

Kirk forces a smile. This is like playing tennis without a net. And without a racket. "What about it?" 

"We could reschedule if the incident with the transporter has left you...weary." Spock says this like he's picking his way through a field of broken glass, trying his best not to make the wrong step. 

Jim knows almost nothing about what's going on, but his gut tells him that admitting any weakness—no matter how small—is probably a bad idea right now. Spock still has that knife on him, after all. 

"Weary? Who's weary? The debriefing will continue as planned," he says. He goes to slap Spock on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that _his_ Spock is just beginning to accept, but then thinks better of it. Perhaps this Spock and Kirk don't touch at all. Perhaps they haven't reached that level of camaraderie that Jim holds to his heart like a precious, newborn thing. 

His hand falls to his side, heavy and weighted. Kyle's blood is pooling toward the toe of his boot. 

"Have someone clean up this mess," Jim says, and he tries to make it as imperious as possible, but he can't help but feel sorry for the bastard. He ducks out into the hallway, where he's finally free of the weight of Spock's gaze. Bones, Uhura, and Scotty are waiting for him in the hall.

The walk to sickbay is slow and fraught with danger. Uhura attempts to say something once they're moving, but Kirk shushes her as another crewman rounds the corner and salutes them. They salute back, walking briskly. They don't speak again until they're alone in McCoy's private office. 

Bones locks the door, turns to the rest of them, and gestures to the leather flightsuit he's wearing. "Can someone tell me just what the hell is going on?" he says. 

Jim runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. But I have an idea."

Jim's working theory is that this is some kind of alternate dimension where things with the Federation didn't _quite_ go as planned. The computer's information supports this. They read their own files and learn about what their lives are like here. Kirk's record is dripping with commendations for genocides, massacres, assassinations. It says he killed Pike and stole the captaincy. For some reason, above all the other horrors, this one turns his stomach the most.

But then he opens Spock's file—call it curiosity or knowing thy enemy—and reads about how Vulcan was destroyed by this Empire, its people subjugated. How the Vulcans, ever the pragmatists, took the can't beat 'em, join 'em route. The Empire has since conquered dozens of worlds with the might and intelligence of Vulcans like Spock on their side. 

Now Jim definitely feels sick. 

"All right. Clearly we're in Hell." Bones snorts. "But how did we get here?"

Scotty shrugs. "I'm guessing the ion storm shorted out something during the transporter sequence and some kind of...transposition took place between our reality and another one."

Jim would point out that the chances of that are almost impossible, but he knows for a fact that there's an elderly Spock from an alternate timeline sitting on New Vulcan right now sipping tea, so what the hell. Nothing's impossible anymore.

"That means our other selves, the ones that are supposed to be here…?" Uhura looks like she might throw up. "They're on our Enterprise."

Jim can sympathize, but it's Scotty of all people who reaches for her, takes her by the shoulder and squeezes. "It'll be all right, lass. We're going to get out of here, I promise you." 

She gives him a watery smile. Jim nods his thanks at Scotty, but Scotty doesn't seem to notice. 

"Okay." Jim cracks his knuckles. "Here's what we're going to do." He gives everyone their assignments. Uhura is to go to the bridge and find out what exactly their mission in this sector is, if it's not routine exploration like it was in their universe. Bones and Scotty are sent to engineering to try and figure out a way out of this nightmare of a timeline, and Jim? Jim tells them he's going to cover for them, keep up the facade of a power-mad captain, and hopefully get them out of this in one piece. 

"Be careful," Uhura tells him—all of them, really—before she leaves sickbay with another knife tucked in her knee-high boot. 

"It'll be fine," Jim says. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Uhura says. Jim's comforted by the lie, in a way. It means she cares enough not to want him to worry. He gives her a smile, a real one. She might have returned it, even, but she's out the door too fast to tell for sure. 

He wishes he could open his communicator and ask Spock if he's doing the right thing. A wave of homesickness sweeps through his stomach. He nods to Bones and Scotty as they, too, depart. 

Jim goes through his day like a blind man trying to navigate an unfamiliar house. The ship is mostly the same as his own Enterprise, but altered subtly in unexpected places: a corridor where no corridor should be, security personnel where there should be scientists, and weapons. More weapons than Jim's ever seen on a starship. 

He's cagey when answering questions and issuing orders. There's no telling what passes for normal around here, so Jim just toes the line between what he would do and what a madman would do. Uhura informs him over his comm link that "the usual" means they're going to mine the uninhabited planet before for any metals it might contain, despite the fact that the mining will likely destroy its fledgling ecosystem. Jim doesn't like it, but it's not like he can give a good reason to stop the mission, not when the planet's dead anyway.

It's a relief when his PADD chirps with an alert that the alpha shift is ending. The only thing left on his schedule is an intensely vague notation at 1900 that says 'Weekly Debrief, Captain's Quarters.' The only other participant listed is Spock and there's no agenda attached. 

Best to just get it over with, Jim thinks. He'll stumble through and hope that this Spock is also used to catching his captain when he's about to fall. Though trust doesn't seem to be an overly useful trait on this Enterprise. Jim just saw a man get stabbed in the canteen over a muffin, after all. 

On the way to his quarters, his communicator chirps with a call from Scotty on a secure channel. "We can rewire the transporters," Scotty says, "but the power fluctuations will be seen on Sulu's board." 

"I'll take care of it. Wait for my word." Jim considers going to the bridge and handling that grotesque version of Sulu himself, but he doesn't want to miss this meeting with Spock and arouse his Vulcan suspicions. Instead he sends Uhura an encrypted message from his PADD telling her to distract the security chief. Jim pings Scotty to let him know Uhura will give the all-clear. Hopefully Scotty will be able to make good use of that power.

He reaches the door to his quarters—at least, he thinks they're his quarters. The schematics file said they were his quarters. The door opens at his touch, so that's promising. He steps inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light after the stark brightness of the corridor. 

"Computer, lights fifty percent," he says, and up they come. 

He nearly startles when he sees Spock sitting on his bed, immersed in his PADD. Spock looks so at home there, one leg crossed over his other knee, lounging as much as a Vulcan ever lounges. There's a chair in the corner that Jim can see, and surely there is more seating in the other room through the opposite doorway. But the bed. That's where Spock is. 

Spock waits a beat, probably to finish reading his report, before he looks up. "You are six minutes late," he says. 

Keep calm, Jim tells himself. Everything's normal. You're an insane despot and Spock killed a guy with a penknife today.

He fashions a grin out of his lips and says, "It's like no one can do anything on this ship without my sign-off. Busy shift." He glances surreptitiously around the room. Unfamiliar trophies line the shelves, but they betray no clue as to what kind of man this Kirk might be.

Spock hums a little in agreement, setting his PADD aside on the nightstand. 

"The transporter malfunction's been a pain too," Jim continues, not sure if a conversational ramble is the best idea, but wanting to steer it if he has a choice. "I have Scotty looking into it. He—" Jim swallows as Spock unfolds himself and stands very, very close. 

"Jim." His pale Vulcan hands find the fastener at the V of Jim's flightsuit, toying with it between lithe fingers. "This evening is set aside for a debriefing in name only. Do not speak to me of ship's business again tonight." 

"Uh, all right," he manages to answer. The flightsuit zipper is tugged down, and the black and gold of Jim's uniform peels away from his skin. His mind is blank, his body, frozen. 

This is Spock, this is Spock: that's all he can hear inside his head. 

"Get on the table," Spock says. 

"Table?" Jim hadn't noticed it when he'd walked in, but sure enough, there is a table. It's situated near the workstation, behind the privacy grill. It's white and bare, and there are black straps attached to it, dangling with restraints on their ends. 

Jim does not want to get on that table. 

His body slams into action before his brain can process a thought beyond _no_. He pulls away, but Spock catches him by the wrists. His grip is like solid rock, immovable. Spock is a landslide and Jim is being crushed. 

"It has been some time since you fought like this," Spock murmurs. His face betrays nothing, not pleasure, not delight, not cruelty. That makes it worse. Jim searches those familiar features behind the beard, hoping to see a spark of mercy. But there's no emotion to cling to, not even dark ones. 

"Take your hands off me," Jim hisses. "That's an order."

A perfectly slanted eyebrow rises. "You do not give orders here," he says. 

Several things seem to happen all at once. Spock jerks Jim forward, tears his uniform down past his hips, and strong-arms him toward the table. Hobbled at his knees and wrists, Jim can't gain much leverage, but he fights back anyway. He twists in Spock's grip, striking out blindly with his elbows, his head. His teeth snap at Spock's ear—the only exposed bit of flesh Jim can reach—but Spock is quicker, ducking and manhandling with his superior strength. 

"No. No!" Jim grates out, but he's already flat on his back on the table and it's happening. This is happening. Spock is dragging his boots from his feet, securing the restraints to his flailing arms and legs. In less than an eyeblink, he's trapped. His arms are lashed at his sides, his legs spread and tied down. 

Jim's mind races. Spock knows, somehow, that Jim doesn't belong in this world. Jim's going to be tortured, killed. His crew are waiting for him to get them out of here, and he's let them down. He's failed. He's dead and they'll die here too. 

"No," he says, soft but sure, as Spock tightens the last buckle around his ankle. The only thought he can keep in his head now is one of defiance. If he can keep his mouth shut, maybe the others can get home. Maybe he can buy them enough time to slip away undetected while the laser focus of Spock's mind is occupied with him. 

Jim thinks of a glass wall with the whole world on the other side. His eyes close tightly. Spock was the last thing he saw then. He doesn't want this false Spock to be the last thing he sees now. 

"You will keep them open." Spock's hand lands on his jaw and shakes him, fingernails digging in. Jim keeps them shut. " _Open_ ," Spock demands. The blow, when it lands, is harder than Jim was prepared for. He can feel the bruise forming on his cheekbone, hot and red. His eyes blink open out of instinct, and they stay open to stare up at Spock, whose hand gentles on his throat. His fingers paw there in the hollow of it, thumb tracing his jugular. The look in Spock's eyes...Jim can almost see his own Spock there.

"Say the word and I will stop," Spock says. 

"Then stop," Jim says. He swallows. "Please." 

A hint of—could it be?—fondness crosses Spock's face. "You know full well that is not the word. You are unusually playful tonight, Jim." 

Jim's mind races. What word is he talking about? What does Spock mean, playful? What—? 

Spock's thumb drags up the column of Jim's throat to rub across Jim's dry lips. Jim can feel his heart stop in his chest. "I will endeavor to match your mood," Spock says.

Spock's hand returns to his neck and wraps around it, squeezing slowly. Jim gasps for air, but his throat is like a crumpling cardboard tube in Spock's grip. Spots dance in his vision before things begin to go black around the edges. Then Spock's hand is gone and oxygen rushes back into Jim's lungs. He draws in huge panting breaths, not caring about showing weakness anymore. His eyes blink dumbly at the figure towering over him, the one who's wearing his friend's face. 

"Whatever you want to know," Jim coughs out between ragged breaths, "I won't talk." 

Spock inclines his head as if the statement surprises him. "Ah. I see," he says. He folds his hands behind his back and walks around the table, taking his time. His gaze sweeps up and down Jim's naked body, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Jim feels vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with being a stranger in a strange land. "You are my prisoner, then." Spock makes it sound like a question. Jim doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't. He just tries to get his breath back, choking back the coughs. 

"My little human prisoner," Spock murmurs. He's standing on the other side of the table now, his hand capturing Jim's chin between thumb and forefinger. "If you will not talk," his other hand moves to the closures on his own flightsuit, undoing just the flap at his crotch, "then I will have to find another use for that pink mouth." 

Jim can't think, can only stare. His brain stops processing all the variables, all the clues. He can't believe that Spock— _any_ Spock—would be capable of this. Violence, sure. Killing, yes. Even his own Spock has come dangerously close to murder. But this? 

"Open," Spock says, and his cock is there, protruding from the flap of his flightsuit, long and dripping at the tip. It nudges at Jim's lips, which thin into a disgusted line. The fluid doesn't smell like a human's, not gamey or musky at all. It smells almost artificial, like new paint. His teeth clamp shut so hard his jaw aches.

"Very well." Spock's hand leaves his chin and reaches for his nose, which he pinches shut. Jim keeps holding his breath, but he knows it's useless. Eventually he'll need air, and when he does—

His lips part and Spock forces his way inside Jim's mouth. He releases Jim's nose in favor of his hair, yanking at it to position Jim's head to the side. The angle allows him deeper, plunging into Jim's throat. His hips pull away, and for a moment Jim can breathe again, but it's only a moment. Spock's hips snap forward again, and his dick fucks back into Jim's mouth. 

"Such an efficient way to keep human whores quiet," Spock says. His fingers flex in Jim's hair. A few strands rip painfully at his scalp, and tears spring to Jim's eyes. He blinks them back as best he can, but one rolls down his temple to patter on the table. Spock lets go of the base of his cock and presses a fingertip to the dot of moisture, rubbing it between his fingers like a scientist with a sample. His hips continue their leisurely pumping. 

"Would you cry, I wonder, if I invited an entire squadron of Vulcans to come share you?" Spock asks. Jim shudders at the sound of that voice, so familiar, saying such foreign things. "My personal security detail would be grateful, I'm sure. Would you enjoy that? Six Vulcans holding you down, taking turns at your mouth and your hole?"

Jim chokes out a muffled sound of protest, which Spock ignores. His free hand wanders down the expanse of Jim's body. Jim feels sharp nails tweak his nipple, and he jolts, nearly choking on Spock's dick. Spock just raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

"Perhaps I should keep you for myself," he sighs. "Though I am sure you would relish having all the Vulcan seed you could drink." His hand is at Jim's navel, then between his legs, pressing and fondling. Jim inhales sharply as his balls are touched and rolled. His own cock, while not hard, is not completely lax, and it responds to Spock's touch in a way that makes Jim squeeze his eyes shut in shame. 

"Little whore, you forget." Spock's hand leaves his balls and latches onto his throat. "I ordered you to open. Open everything to me." 

Jim blinks his eyes open wildly. It's hard enough to breathe while Spock fucks his face, but the hand around his neck squeezing ever so slightly makes it impossible. He catches Spock's gaze and holds it. Spock nods as if pleased. "Yes. Look up at me. Watch me use you." 

The hand in Jim's hair tightens, and Spock pulls back, still not breaking eye contact. He doesn't make a sound as he comes, but he does blink once, slowly. Jim's mouth is flooded by the sickly chemical taste of Vulcan come. There's too much of it, and he can't swallow with his throat as raw as it is, so he just holds it on his tongue and lets it pour from his lips as Spock's dick leaves them. The come slides down his cheek and chin in thick strands. He gasps for air. 

"A human mess," Spock says as he drags his thumb through the spatters on Jim's face, spreading the slick down his throat, rubbing it into his bruised skin. His hand falls lower until it's back at Jim's cock. Heat suffuses through Jim as he realizes he's even harder than before. Spock's fingertips dance along the smooth length of it, smearing wetness there. 

Spock moves away from the head of the table, and Jim boggles at the sight. Spock's dick is still hard, even larger now, dribbling from the tip as it sways side to side with his movements. Spock catches Jim's stare and gives a curious tilt of his head. "Ah, are we still playing at surprise? Does my helpless prisoner not know what they say about Vulcan longevity?" He takes his cock in hand and paints a wet stripe along Jim's bare ankle as he passes it by. "I could take you another three or four times before I am fully sated. Is that what you want? To be your first officer's plaything for hours?" 

He's at the foot of the table now, reaching both hands between Jim's legs to play with his balls, his hole. His hands are slick and warm with his own come, and his thumb easily presses into Jim despite the tension in Jim's body.

"Please," Jim says. He takes several rapid breaths through his nose, trying to relax his muscles, trying to keep his composure. "Don't."

"As I informed you previously, I am not taking orders from you tonight," Spock says. Two fingers replace his thumb. "Nor am I taking requests." 

A sob nearly escapes Jim before he bites down on it. The pain at his neck and cheek seem at odds with the pleasure Spock is lavishing between his legs, but after a moment, it all swirls together into a massive ball of sensation that he can't deny. He strains against the shackles at his wrists and feet, gathering more bruises by the feel of it, but he can't get away from Spock's questing hands. And the awful thing, the really terrible thing of it? Jim's brain starts sliding away from the reality of what's happening, substituting a more comfortable lie instead. 

This is Spock, it says. Your Spock. He's touching you at last and this might be your only chance to feel it. 

"N-no!" Jim cries. Spock assumes he's speaking to him, of course, and works his fingers deeper. 

"A squirming human," Spock breathes over the head of his cock. "A sight to behold." 

"Stop it! Get off me!" Jim tries to pull his legs together, but it's useless. The shackles hold them far apart. Spock has ample room to work his fingers in and out of his hole. He takes hold of Jim's cock, too, after a moment. Jim's body lights up, pathways connecting electrically under his skin. He fights it. He can't let it happen. But Spock is milking him so expertly, touching him in ways Jim didn't even know he needed to be touched. 

"I will stop when I'm satisfied," Spock says. "Now come for me." 

As if his body had been waiting for those words, Jim comes. It's painful and messy, a pool of fluid on his belly and spasms around Spock's fingers. The seed and the sensations are torn from him. A defeat. Jim lays panting and sweat-soaked on the table. He's cold, he realizes as if from a distance, watching a film of himself shivering. His face is wet but he can't tell if it's come or more tears. 

"My captured prize. My golden human. Well done."

He doesn't move when Spock climbs onto the table, graceful between Jim's legs. There's no surprise when Spock guides his dick to his sensitive hole and enters him matter-of-factly. Jim just lays his cheek to the side and stares at the pattern the privacy grill forms to the left. His thoughts wander. The honeycomb shapes. Bees. Flight. Home. Not Spock. Or rather, yes, Spock. I must remember Spock, he tells himself. The real one. 

The imposter with Spock's face moves above him, in him, kisses his slack mouth with no regard for the come slathered there. He growls out words Jim can't translate. High Vulcan, maybe, or some language that exists only in this nightmare place. When Spock climaxes for a second time, he does so in patches on Jim's hip and pubic bone. Then Spock is gone and Jim lays shackled to the table, growing colder. 

The warm, damp cloth is a shock, and Jim startles at its touch. Spock shushes him. "No, t'hy'la. Now your struggles are over." He runs the cloth over Jim's face, down his neck and torso, cleaning the come from his skin. Jim watches, mute, wondering what could possibly be next. Does Spock merely want him clean for another round? 

"What did you call me?" Jim manages to croak. 

Spock shakes his head and unbuckles the restraints. "If you wish to hear it again, you need only ask. My t'hy'la, come here." Before Jim can get away, Spock scoops him up and carries him like he weighs nothing. Jim finds himself on the bed, swaddled under the covers with Spock beside him. Spock's removed his flightsuit, and his bare skin presses against Jim's. Jim cannot find his tongue or what's left of his brain. 

"You did so very well," Spock says. He gathers Jim close, his arms folding around his shaking back. "Jim, beautiful Jim. You were wonderful." 

Nothing makes sense. Minutes ago this Spock was choking the life out of him. Now he's tender and gentle, his fingers in Jim's hair and his lips at his temple. Jim could almost close his eyes and pretend—

"Get the hell away from me," he snarls, shoving the Vulcan body away with all his strength. Spock, being Spock, doesn't move much, but it gives Jim the chance to scramble out of the bed and put it between him and his attacker. His eyes flick to Spock's flightsuit, crumpled on the floor about six steps away. If he could reach it and get that knife...or a phaser….

"Jim?" Spock sits up in bed with his hands raised in a peaceful gesture. His eyebrow is hooking at that honestly confused angle that Jim used to love so much. "It is over. You may come to bed now." 

"With you? After what just happened?" Jim hesitates. He could dive for the sheet and cover his nakedness or he could go for the flightsuit. A snap decision: flightsuit. But Spock moves lightning quick. He's on his feet and grabbing hold of Jim before he's even close.

Spock stares at him. "Why are you acting this way?" 

"How do you expect me to act?" Jim spits back. "Let me go!" 

Spock raises his hand and touches Jim's face. Jim nearly screams at the contact, familiar as it is. His psi points. Spock's reaching for his mind. 

"Don't you fucking dare!" This is worse than the other kind of attack. This is his cover blown, and the rest of the away team's too. This is the last thing that's his—his mind—stripped bare.

"If you do not calm yourself, I have no choice," Spock says between gritted teeth.

"Not my head, you don't get to go into my—" Jim fights, but Spock's arm holds him fast and his fingers slide into place. Jim gasps, his thoughts racing out of him and into Spock, a complete data dump. It's different from the meld he'd shared with that other Spock in the ice cave. There's something missing, something broken. It hurts, and Jim cries out at the pain.

The meld snaps apart. Spock takes a step back, his eyes wide. "The bond," he whispers. "Where…?" 

Jim fights the urge to wrap his arms around himself protectively. Instead he just squints at his captor. "The what?"

Spock is on him in an instant, tackling him to the floor and shoving the sharp bone of his forearm against Jim's bruised throat. "Who are you?" Spock growls. "Where is Jim? What have you done with him?"

"C-can't...breathe," Jim wheezes. 

Spock only presses harder. "How are you in my bondmate's body?" he roars. 

Jim goes stockstill beneath him. Spock's body is a heavy weight, pinning him down. His lungs still burn for air, but he can't think about that. He has only one thought in his head. 

"Y-you," he stammers. "We're...bonded?" 

Spock blinks. Lets up on Jim's neck just a little. "Who. Are. You," he repeats. 

Jim can't speak. He won't. His crewmen are counting on him to get them out of here alive. He can't tell anyone who they are, least of all this sadistic parody of his first officer. 

Spock must see the mistrust on his face, because he says, "Tell me. I will not harm you so long as you help bring Jim back to me." His hand goes soft around Jim's aching shoulder, almost a caress. 

Jim still cannot speak. 

Spock cups his bruised face between his palms. "You are him, yet you are not. I saw as much in your mind," he says slowly. "Tell me and I will help you. I swear it." His eyes are dark and almost human. "I want only my husband back where he belongs."

Jim believes him. It's not as if Spock can lie, right?

"I—" Jim licks his dry lips. "I am James T. Kirk. But not the Kirk you know." And the whole story spills out, the ion storm, the away team, everything. He sketches a picture of his own universe, the one he needs to get back to. He's weary by the end, shaking with unused adrenaline. Spock helps him to his feet and leads him to the bed, where they sit, hiding their nakedness beneath corners of the bedsheets. 

"I do not understand," Spock says when the tale is complete. "You are another Jim, but I do not sense a bond within you. Do you not know me in your world?" 

"No, I know you. I know Spock. You're— He's my first officer too," Jim says.

"But you have not yet bonded?"

Jim shakes his head. "We're not together. Not where I'm from." 

Spock stares at him, disbelieving. "That is not possible."

"It's the truth. Why do you think I was so blindsided by the whole—" He gestures to the table on the far side of the room. "—thing? And what's with all that, anyway? Am I—is your Jim into pain?"

"Not pain necessarily, but the loss of control. His position as captain is incredibly stressful. The threat of assassination is very real and never ceases. He's constantly maneuvering politically and militarily." Spock ducks his head. "He came to me long ago and asked if I would do this for him. He requires it to remain clear-headed." 

Jim nearly let loose a hysterical laugh. "Clear-headed? So you two have a standing appointment to tie him up and choke him out? That's what passes for sane in this universe?" He scoffs, wrapping the sheet tighter around his waist. 

"You are judging our relationship by the standards of your own world," Spock says. He sounds the right shade of prissy; Jim can imagine his own Spock saying those words. 

Jim snorts. "Excuse me for using logic for once in my life."

What he said must have struck a nerve; Spock sits up straighter and stares at him. After a long moment, he opens a drawer in the bedside table and retrieves a portable dermal regenerator. He gestures to Jim's neck and cheek. "Allow me. It is usually my duty, after such activities, to heal any abrasions." 

"Yeah, can't let any of the crew see what you did," Jim says with a caustic twist of his lips. Spock doesn't respond, just motions for Jim to sit closer. Jim almost tells him to go screw himself, but he finally relents, scooting beside Spock so he can reach his neck. He starts on the worst of the bruises along Jim's throat, running the regenerator along the injury until Jim feels the pain start to fade. He sits in silence, thinking on all the bruises the other Jim Kirk must have hid. "I didn't see anything about your 'relationship' in the ship's files," he says at last. 

"We bonded in secret," Spock says simply. "No one but the healer who performed the ceremony knows of our marriage." He moves on to Jim's cheek. 

Jim stares at him. "How come?"

"Jim feared I would be a target if our bonding was made public. He did not wish for me to be in danger for his sake." Spock shakes his sleek head. "I despise this secrecy. Every day the burden weighs heavier. But you, with your safe, luxurious world, you choose not to be with your Spock at all. Why?"

"It's not a choice," Jim fires back. "It's just the way things are."

"You do not love him?" He picks up Jim's hand and heals the marks on his wrist. They're not very deep and disappear in moments. 

"No, it's not—" Jim sighs. He can't believe he's discussing the secrets buried in his heart with an evil version of Spock who just fucked him against his will. Though technically it was kind of a misunderstanding. God damn, this universe is fucked up, he thinks. "It's complicated," he finally finishes. 

Spock leans back, looking at him knowingly. "You think he does not love you." 

"I _know_ he doesn't. Now can we please discuss how I can get back to my world?" 

"I will assist you, but only if you promise me something," Spock says. 

"What's that?"

"If you return to your world successfully, you must tell your Spock about the emotions you carry for him."

Jim almost rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding me? I can't do that. Trust me, it would not go over well."

"I refuse to believe there is a world where S'chn T'gai Spock does not love James T. Kirk," Spocks says. "And if such a horrifying world exists, I would not want to live in it." 

Jim almost chokes on the memory of another Spock, old and bent with age, who entered his mind and made him feel— No. Jim is not the same man as that Kirk from another future, just as Jim's not the same man who captains this terrible ship. "Don't talk to me about horrifying," Jim says, pressing his fingertips to his aching temples where a headache brews larger. "This place is as horrifying as it gets." 

Spock waves the protest away. "I suppose we all have our own definition of horror." He lifts Jim's feet into his lap and regenerates the torn skin around his ankles. "Even if you are correct and your Spock feels nothing for you," he says quietly, "the Jim Kirk I know would not go to his grave without knowing for certain." 

Jim watches him work in silence. He opens his mouth, but Spock interrupts before he can speak. "Your world cannot be so utopian that you have unlimited time in which to wait, Jim. Do not waste the years if you can help it." He lowers the dermal regenerator, his task complete, but keeps Jim's feet in his lap, running his hands over the arches and toes in a soothing motion. 

"I think they're fine now," Jim says. 

Spock seems to jolt from a reverie and hurriedly replaces Jim's feet on the floor. "My apologies. I was just thinking what might happen if my Jim cannot return to this world." He stares out the porthole above the bed to the stars beyond. "I suppose I would be forced to take the captaincy."

"You don't want to be captain?" Jim asks, thinking of his own Spock, who would have jumped at the chance. Once upon a time.

Spock sighs. "I would not relish the danger. And profitable missions would be meaningless without Jim at my side to share the spoils."

Jim examines the healed skin on his wrist, prodding it experimentally. No pain. That's something at least. "You know, maybe you should concentrate on using this opportunity to make your world a little more liveable," he suggests. 

"How do you mean?" Spock asks. 

"I read the files. This Empire of yours, it's stretched to the breaking point, isn't it? How long until the subjugated worlds revolt? Until the resources run dry?" 

Spock lifts a brow. "Approximately two hundred and seven years, give or take a decade." 

"So what's the point of toiling for an Empire that cannot stand?" Jim asks.

Spock shakes his head. "Toil is preferable to the other options. At any rate, my bondmate thrives on this chaos. He will not give it up easily." 

Jim shrugs. "If you do get your Jim back, he'll have seen my world. Maybe this is your chance to convince him to take a different path. One where the two of you don't have to make clandestine meetings to be with each other. Where you're not worried about him getting killed by his own crew every waking moment. It's not a very logical way to live, is it?" 

Spock regards Jim like a parent might look at a silly but well-intentioned child. "Perhaps you do not consider yourself stubborn, Captain, but my Jim can be quite hard-headed. I do not think it would be possible to persuade him to leave his post after all he's done to achieve it." 

"My Spock could persuade me to do almost anything," Jim says. He allows a slow grin to cross his newly healed face. "Does that not hold true for you? Change the game, Spock. Rewrite the rules." 

Spock opens his mouth, a small not-smirk playing at the corner of his lips, and for a millisecond Jim thinks this could be one of their late-night talks over the chessboard back home. But it's not, and Jim's communicator, still trapped in the bundle of his flightsuit on the ground, buzzes its interruption. Jim leaves Spock to sit on the bed alone and fishes through the pile of fabric until he finds it. He flicks it open and secures the channel. "Kirk here."

"We're ready," Scotty's voice crackles through. "But Captain, we need to get to the transporter room soon if we want to make the window. The doctor and I are hemmed in here at engineering; these thugs that call themselves security are sniffing about, and I don't know how Lieutenant Uhura is going to manage leaving her post on the bridge."

Jim glances up at Spock, one eyebrow raised. Spock gives a little nod in answer. "I think we can cover your escape. Be ready to move, Scotty." 

"We? Who's we, now?" Scotty squawks. 

"Never mind, just hang tight. Kirk out." He slaps his communicator closed and grabs his crumpled uniform from the floor. "Mr. Spock, any way you can divert those security teams?" 

Without bothering to waste time answering, Spock stands and lopes over to the intercom on the wall, heedless of his nakedness. Jim watches him for only a moment, then turns to finish shrugging into his flightsuit. The intercom squeals before Spock relays his message. 

"Security teams Tango, Romeo, and Sierra: please report to deck eight. An attempt on the captain's life is in progress." 

"And our orders?" a voice asks in return. 

Spock presses the button once more. "Handle the assassins and I will see to it that you move up in rank." He releases the button and picks his own uniform off the floor. "We must hurry. The ruse will not keep them occupied for long."

"Oh my god, you lied. I thought you never lied." Jim peers at him as if seeing a new organism spring forth from the muck. "Will you be all right once they find out?" 

"I have schemed my way through worse," is all Spock says. He pulls on his boots and checks that his dagger is still at his belt. "Come. Time is short." 

They dart through the corridors, dodging crewmen here and there as they make their way to the transporter room. The rest of Jim's away team is waiting for them when they arrive. Bones and Scotty look none the worse for wear but Uhura's hair is uncharacteristically disheveled and there's blood spattered on her knuckles. 

"Uhura?" Jim asks. 

"It's not mine," she says. "Security chief Sulu will not be a problem anymore. Sir." 

Jim doesn't ask. Scotty and Bones wisely follow his lead. 

"What's he doing here?" Bones asks instead, gesturing to the bearded Spock.

"It's all right," Jim says. "He's a friend." 

Scotty barely looks up from the console he's banging away on. "Captain, they're onto us. They've cut the power."

"Switch to auxiliary," Jim and Spock say in unison. 

"I can try to tie in, but there won't be enough power left for auto-engagement," Scotty says. 

"I will operate the controls manually," Spock says. 

"But they're coming," Jim protests. "They know we're here. If you stay—"

"Do not be concerned." Spock takes up his station behind the console, forcing Scotty to move toward the transporter pad. "The window is closing. You must go."

Bones and Uhura don't have to be told twice. They're already in place on their pads. Scotty hesitates on the steps, beckoning to Jim. "Captain, please. We've got minutes at the most."

"Spock?" Jim says, and he can't think of anything else to say.

"I need my captain," Spock says. He tips his chin toward the transporter. "As I am sure your Spock needs you. Go." 

"Thank you. And remember what I said." Jim clasps his shoulder and squeezes. "You can turn this tide, Spock. If anyone can do it, you can." 

"Captain," Spock says with a modicum of warmth coloring his voice, "I will consider it. If you consider what I have told you." 

"Sir!" Scotty cries. "We're down to seconds, man!"

Jim gives Spock's shoulder one final squeeze before he turns and takes his position on the transporter pad. "Energize," he says. 

The last thing he sees in that world is Spock's face.

The first thing he sees when he materializes is, again, Spock's face. Though this time it is mercifully free of facial hair. Relief pounds through Jim's body, and he feels himself relax for the first time in nearly twelve hours. 

"Welcome back, Captain," Spock says, and if his voice sounds a little more distant than Jim expected, well, that's his own fault. Jim steps down from the pad with his away team close behind him.

"It's good to be home, Mr. Spock," Jim says. Spock nods, his hands folded behind his back, and then turns to issue orders to the engineers and medical personnel that are crowded into the transporter room. Jim watches him and thinks about what that other Spock had said about loving him in every universe. How he could have believed that, he wonders, even for a moment? This Spock is neither pleased nor upset at his miraculous recovery. But what did he expect? Some heartfelt tears? A spontaneous embrace? That wasn't Spock. It would never be. 

The hours that follow are tiring. There are reports to file and explanations to share. Spock debriefs him on the bridge, reporting that the away team's otherworldly counterparts seemed to disappear the moment the transporter hummed to life. Although he could not say for sure, Spock's almost certain ("Eighty-six percent certain, sir.") that the transposition was complete and the other Kirk, Uhura, Scotty, and Bones are back in their own timeline. 

"Your counterparts were put in the brig immediately upon their arrival," Spock tells him. "It was readily apparent that something was wrong. They acted like barbarians. It was extremely fascinating." 

"Good, good," Jim says, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along his lower lip. He's seated in his chair on the bridge, listening to the gentle hum of his ship and its crew. This is where he should feel at home more than any place in the universe. So why does he feel so uneasy, like he's wearing a mask that doesn't fit?

"Captain," Spock says at his elbow, "if you are weary, we can reschedule this evening's activities."

Jim's head snaps up. "What did you say?"

"The new duty roster you wished to discuss this evening. We can reschedule for another date if you wish," Spock says. He cocks his head to the side in thought. "You did not remember." It's not an accusation, but there is surprise in his tone. 

Jim rubs at his tired eyes. "I'm sorry, Spock. It's been a long day."

"I will reschedule." Spock's already tapping away at his PADD.

"No, no, it's all right." Jim dredges up a smile from somewhere for his First. "I'll be there. As promised." 

Spock pauses in his tapping. He manages to glance up in a way that seems like he's not looking down at Jim in his chair. "If you are certain," he says. 

"I'm certain. See you at—" Jim looks to him helplessly. 

"Nineteen hundred hours," Spock supplies. "In your quarters." 

"Right." A smile calculated to reassure appears. "See you then."

Spock nods and returns to his science station, leaving Jim to gnaw on this thumbnail in thought. He remembers making these plans with Spock, what, a week ago? He'd been so adamant about doing it together, as a team. If he backed out now, Spock would know something was really wrong. 

And that's the last thing Jim needs.

So Jim slogs through his shift. It's like a dream where he's spent all day working and then wakes up to do it all over again. His mind hasn't had a break for at least 28 hours, owing to the strange time shift between the two realities, but his body's not tired. Jim counts that one blessing as he makes his way to his quarters. 

Spock is already there, punctual as ever. He's standing outside Jim's door, consulting his PADD while he waits. Something about all this makes Jim come up short; for just a moment, he wonders if he's back on that other Enterprise and this is that other Spock. 

"Captain?" Spock asks, looking up to catch his stare. "Are you well?"

Jim shakes his head to clear it. "Sorry. Yeah. I'm fine. Let's get to it, shall we?" He clears his throat and lets them into his quarters, which are as spartan and familiar as they've always been. Jim can't help but take a good long look at everything: the bed and the furniture, his scattered gifts from various worlds, all right where it should be. Nothing out of place. 

"Jim?" 

Jim whirls back around to see Spock standing rigidly next to the little padded chair that sits opposite Jim's desk. He looks concerned, like maybe he's already asked a question that Jim didn't hear. 

"Yes?"

Spock opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again as if he's choosing his words with great care. "It would be unsurprising if you found yourself affected by today's events. Lieutenant Uhura informed me that the transposition was...disconcerting." 

"It wasn't pretty," Jim allows. He swallows the catch in his throat. "I think she may have killed a man back there, Spock."

Spock inclines his head. "That is a distinct possibility."

"She didn't tell you?"

"No. The lieutenant did assure me, however, that she would discuss the ordeal with Mr. Scott," Spock says. "I am confident that he will handle the matter as best as can be expected." 

"Hm." Jim sticks his lower lip out a little, nodding to himself. "Uhura and Scotty, huh?" 

"Indeed." Spock's expression would reveal nothing to an outsider, but Jim can sense a kinship with his own confusion. Spock sits in the visitor's chair and indicates that Jim should sit in his. 

Jim sits, thankful that concerns about Uhura's state of mind have put Spock off the scent for now. He pulls up the current roster on his PADD and listens to Spock's voice, the cadence steady as he tracks through their lists. 

"Dr. Marla Moreau, newly added to the chemistry department. She has requested beta shift. However, I usually assign novice crewmen to the delta shift until they become more familiar with the scientific equipment," Spock says. 

"Put her on beta for two weeks. If she can handle it, great. If not—" Jim glances up at exactly the wrong moment. Spock is there, sitting as comfortably as Jim's ever seen him, his posture relaxed. Jim can't help but remember that other Spock, sitting on the edge of his bunk, a coil of power and strength. That mouth—he's kissed it. It's only been a few hours since he's kissed it, or rather, been kissed by it. And those hands, now handling that PADD so deftly. How can Jim look at them, now that he knows how they feel around his throat, between his legs? 

"If not?" Spock prompts.

Jim jolts from his reverie with a guilty clearing of his throat. "If she can't hack it, put her on gamma until she can," he finishes. 

"Affirmative." Spock makes the appropriate notation on his screen, then places the PADD aside on the edge of Jim's desk. "Captain, we can continue this work later. There is no pressing need for it to be concluded tonight." 

"I told you, I'm fine," Jim says quickly. 

"I do not think that is an accurate assessment of the situation," Spock says. 

"What do you want from me?" Jim fires back. "To admit I'm tired? All right, I'm—"

"I do not need you to confess to that which is readily apparent. I only wish you would confide in me about what happened in that other timeline." Spock's voice is even, firm, an order. "Your report was extremely circumspect about the details of your escape, mentioning only that my counterpart played some role in aiding you."

"I don't want to talk about it," Jim snaps. "If I could forget it ever happened, I would! But since I can't, I'd rather not relive it. Does that register with you, Mr. Spock?" 

Spock pulls back. Jim hadn't noticed how close they'd been sitting to each other, but now there's a gulf between them, measured in his quickening heartbeats. 

"Understood, sir," Spock says quietly. He picks up his PADD and stares down at its screen. "Shall I continue?"

Jim rests his weary head in his palm, his elbow resting on the lip of his desk. He uses the tips of his middle and forefinger to rub at his tired eyes. He's so exhausted, he almost feels like he could fall asleep right here. "Go ahead," he says. 

"Mr. Kyle is being moved from the transporter room to main engineering. His replacement will need to be on a rotating schedule. I have two candidates who—" 

Jim listens to the drone of Spock's voice. His eyelids feel like leaden weights are attached at their corners. How did that tiny verbal skirmish take so much out of him? 

"Captain?" Spock's voice is like an ocean wave, pulling Jim under. 

"I'm here," Jim murmurs. "Keep going." 

Spock continues speaking, and Jim half-listens, falling deeper into the steel trap of sleep. He can hear his first officer as if he's muffled by snow or a thick, heavy blanket. The thought makes Jim even more tired. He sags a little in his chair, his eyes closing. 

He sleeps. He dreams. Spock is there, one moment wearing a beard, then, when he turns and looks over his shoulder, it's gone. Jim is lashed down on a hard surface, but it's floating. He's floating, zero-G, no bottom to this ocean. Spock's hand is gentle on his face. His fingertips are soft where they meet his cheek, his temple. 

"Spock," Jim sighs. He nuzzles into that hand. 

Spock's voice is in his ear. No, in his head. "Forget," he says. 

Forget? Jim can't remember what he's supposed to— 

It comes in flashes, a torrent. It's not a dream anymore, it's real, and he's back on that ship with Kyle dead on the floor and Bones shaking in rage. He's back to sending Uhura into danger alone, the killings in the mess, the thugs with phasers set to kill. He's back on that table with Spock standing over him. He's naked and sweating and covered in come. He's not supposed to be here, he's supposed to be safe, he's supposed to be home. 

"Jim!" 

His eyes open. He's still in his quarters, breath coming in rasping pants. He's not in his chair any longer; he's sprawled on top of Spock on the floor, his forearm pressed against his First's throat. Jim doesn't remember how they got there, but Spock's eyes are as wide and shocked as he's ever seen them. Horrified. Like he knows. 

"What did you do to me?" Jim hisses.

Spock does not speak. His mouth opens, but no words come out. He stares up at Jim with dark, damp eyes. 

"Tell me." Jim gives him a little shake. "What were you doing in my head?"

"I was trying to make you forget," Spock says. His voice is so quiet, Jim can barely hear him. "You said you wished to forget." 

Jim blinks, stunned. He removes his arm from Spock's throat and sits back, straddling Spock's narrow hips with the brackets of his knees. "You saw?"

Spock nods. "I— Jim, what I did to you—" He breaks off, uncharacteristically off balance, his eyes roving up to the ceiling as if looking for answers there. 

"Hey, it wasn't you," Jim says. His hands grip Spock's shoulders and squeeze. "He just looked like you. You didn't—"

"No," Spock says. " _I_ did this. That other me thought he had your permission, at least. I knew I did not, but I attempted to rearrange your mind anyway. For your own sake, I thought...the arrogance of it!" He shakes his head back and forth on the carpet. "And when I felt your memories, Jim, the way he fit his hand around your neck. It was—" 

Spock's words are stifled on a choked sound, and Jim understands. Spock sees himself hurting Jim, years ago on the bridge. He's living that memory and all the memories attached to it: Vulcan, his mother. His own green-blooded violence. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing exactly what you don't want to find. And the worst part about it is, the mirror's not warped. It's only showing you the truth. 

"Don't, don't, it's okay," Jim shushes. His hands slide up and down Spock's arms as if to ward off hypothermia. He hopes it's soothing. It's supposed to be soothing. "I'm all right. I'm here." 

"I should not have violated your trust in such a manner," Spock bites out. "I should be court-martialed immediately for conduct unbecoming."

"Spock, I'm not going to court-martial you."

"The brig?" He almost sounds hopeful. 

"Not a chance. Just calm down. Deep breaths. You caught a brain-full of bad stuff just now. Do you need to meditate or something?" Jim's hands slow but don't stop their circuit up and down Spock's arms. 

Spock takes three deep breaths, eyes closed. When he opens them, he says, "No. I apologize. The meld was overwhelming." He seems to notice Jim's hands, his gaze dropping to their movement. "You are the one who lived those memories. It is I who should be comforting you," he says. 

"Yeah, well." Jim gives a shrug. "Captain. Comes with the job. Come on." He climbs off Spock and offers him a hand. Spock takes it, eyes averted, and rises to his feet with Jim's help. Jim doesn't quite let go of his hand. "You were really going to wipe my memory? I didn't know Vulcans could do that."

"I had never before attempted it," Spock admits. 

"So why did you even try?" Jim asks, peering into his closed-off face. 

Spock lifts his gaze to meet Jim's. "You said you desired it." 

Jim thinks of that other Spock, the one willing to hold him down and hurt him for the sole purpose of fulfilling Jim's own desires. Maybe every Spock has this mechanism inside him, an encoded need to give Jim what he wants. 

The thought makes him a little dizzy. 

Spock either sees it in his eyes or feels it through his skin, because he draws his hands out of Jim's slowly, like he doesn't want to leave. "There are no sufficient words to demonstrate how much I regret my actions," he says. "I will never enter your mind again."

"Even if I invited you in?" The words tumble out of Jim's mouth before he can stop them. For a moment they are both still, blinking at each other, so close but not touching.

"I do not believe that would be wise," Spock finally says. 

"Did you see everything?" Jim asks. "All of it? From beginning to end?" 

"I saw enough," Spock says. "I saw pain. Your pain. Jim—"

"No, listen to me." Jim's hands find Spock's again, making a bridge between them. "Did you see what happened after? Did you hear what he said about his Kirk?" 

"Your mind is quite...dynamic," Spock struggles to say. "I sensed only what was at the forefront." He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his hands clenching around Jim's. 

"Then let me show you," Jim says. He lifts their joined hands to his cheek. "Just take a look. I want you to." 

"Jim—" Spock nearly pulls away. He's either wrung out from the meld or holding back his strength for Jim's sake, because he doesn't get free. 

"Come on. Don't make me say it," Jim says. "Not when I don't have to."

Jim can _see_ the resolve leeching away from Spock's eyes. A strange frisson goes up his spine at the sight. Is there anything in this universe Spock would not do for him? 

Spock's fingertips find the correct points on his face, spidering across his skin. "Are you certain?" he asks. 

"Yes," Jim says, and closes his eyes. 

It's better this time, now that his mind is untroubled by dreams. Spock creeps in like a cautious ghost, a silver and blue shape at the corner of the mind's eye. Jim calls up the memory of what happened with that other Spock in that other place, and he braces himself for the tattered remnants of pain and confusion that come with it. 

It's okay, he tells Spock, who seems to shiver inside his thoughts. Just hold on, and then you'll see. 

The memory grows from Jim's head, plant-like, seeking sunlight:  
 _T'hy'la—What did you call me?—How are you in my bondmate's body?—Bonded?—You must tell your Spock—It's not a very logical way to live—_

_Captain. I will consider it._

It ends quietly, and Jim opens his eyes. Spock is staring at him again. He looks much like he did that day at the Academy when Jim said goodbye. Like he can't fathom what the appropriate human response might be, or rather, like he doesn't dare try. 

"Okay. It's okay," Jim says. His heart is heavy as he twines his fingers with Spock's and lifts them from his face. "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted— I thought you should know."

"I knew," Spock says. Almost absent-minded, like he's too focused on some other problem he needs to solve.

"Oh." Jim feels very, very foolish, but when he tries to release Spock's hand, Spock grabs it back. Tight.

"Your counterpart," he says, "the other Kirk who was here in the brig, he attempted to bargain for his freedom." 

Jim quirks a brow, curious. "And?" 

Spock licks his lips. "At first he offered me money. Then he offered me power. When those did not sway me, his offers became quite...lewd." 

"Ah. I see."

"I did not accept, of course. Then he leaned toward the security field, as close as he could get, and he told me—" Spock pauses, his thumb rubbing back and forth along the palm of Jim's hand. "He said if I released him, he would give me his love. He spoke as if he knew me. He said he could see how bereft I was without him."

"I'm sorry. Other-me is a jerk," Jim says. 

"No, the fault is not yours. But Jim, I—" Spock looks at him then. It costs him something, Jim can see it. "In a way, he was correct. If you had not returned home, I would have been made infinitely less." Two of his fingers straighten against Jim's knuckles. "Another Spock in another place named you t'hy'la. Would you permit me to do the same?"

A bubbling laugh falls from Jim's mouth. "I don't even know what that means," he says. "Is it good? It sounds good." 

"It is. I may not deserve—" Spock starts to say, but Jim silences him with a look.

"I'm going to sleep for about ten or twelve hours, I think," he says. "After that I'm going to sit down with a good Vulcan translation program and you're going to tell me all about it."

Spock nods. "Understood." His hand gives Jim's one last sweeping caress. "Good night, Jim," he says, then heads toward the cabin door.

"Oh, Mr. Spock?" Jim calls after him.

Spock turns. 

"That was an invitation, in case you didn't know." Jim tips his head toward his sleeping area. "It may be a tight fit, but the bunk can hold two."

"You wish for me to stay with you tonight?" Spock asks slowly, disbelievingly. 

"If you like." Jim's grin grows as Spock steps closer, his hands still clasped behind his back. 

"I would," Spock says softly, and Jim can't wait any longer. He leans forward, but is stopped by two slim Vulcan fingers pressed against his lips. "Jim, I do not know if I could hurt you—intentionally—if you requested it of me. Not after what I saw." 

Jim grins against the fingers and mumbles, "That's fine with me. I've had enough of that to last me for awhile, at least." His hand comes up to Spock's hair, gentle, carding through the black strands. "Just sleep beside me for now. Okay?" He presses his lips to Spock's fingers, and Spock shudders.

"Jim." It's an affirmation spoken against his mouth. Spock's hand falls away and Jim is kissing him at last. He tastes familiar but feels new. This is his Spock. This is where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey it's a little bit dark but then it ends with smoochies = what will go on my headstone, probably. 
> 
> If you liked it, hooray. If it was not your cup of tea, cheers anyway. *clink* 
> 
> Thanks BTI for reading things and telling me to stop worrying so much.
> 
> I am on [tumblr](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to hang out.


End file.
